Rolling Thunder
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: D'Artagnan found shelter, struggling to pull in air. The others must have been taking shelter in another dugout nearby, he thought. Any alternative to that would be out of the question. He was in agony and he desperately tried to fight the darkness that was crowding him but he knew that this was one battle he would not win... An entry in the June/July Fête des Mousquetaires.


**_A/N: I wasn't going to write an entry for this month's Fetes, but then I couldn't stop thinking about the prompt line yesterday and I rushed to get this done thinking that submissions were due on the 15th! When I finally came to my senses, I kind of liked this story and decided not to change it. Hope you enjoy it too!_**

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Rolling Thunder

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning split the skies like the repeating blasts of musket fire – sharp and quick and deadly. The thunder echoed back, the deafening booms rattling bone and blade alike and sounding so much like the cannons that mimicked them from the battlefield below.

D'Artagnan knelt within the dugout he had found shelter in, struggling to pull in air. The repeated cannon blasts had pocketed the entire battlefield with such divots and his companions must have been taking shelter in another nearby, he thought. Any alternative to that would be out of the question. He was in agony and he desperately tried to fight the darkness that was crowding him but he knew that this was one battle he would not win...

oOo

The battle had been a massacre. The musketeers had become embroiled in a dispute between two households. The Duke of Morais was intent on capturing the grounds of the Baron du Blassie no matter the cost, and with his larger army and superior weaponry, the cost would be high, but one he could afford.

The Baron and the daughter of the Duke had fallen in love, and rather than celebrating this union, the Duke grew outraged and began to try to annex the Baron's lands – simply another thing that the du Blassie family had stolen from him, if his shouts to his men were to be believed. Battle is always a dangerous thing, but when pride is driven by hurt and reckless abandon, when a leader commands without fear of the consequences, so certain in his anger and the righteousness of his actions, reason becomes futile, negotiation is non-existent and the body count is high.

Athos, Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan had been issued to the Baron's lands in the hopes of making peace. Two days of negotiations came to nothing despite their best attempts at diplomacy. The Duke would not be swayed.

It was their duty then to defend the Barony as the Duke began his aggressive campaign. They could not simply stand aside and watch the Duke slaughter the Baron, and potentially his daughter, who he had branded a traitor to her bloodline. He would not take her back now, even if the bonds of her marriage to the Baron could be annulled. No, in the Duke's eyes, the damage had been done, and her vows of "I do" severed any fatherly bonds as though she had thrust a dagger into his breast.

It was clear that Aramis would stay to defend the Baron and his love, and in doing so, Porthos would remain by his side. D'Artagnan's own instincts were to stay and fight, but he was somewhat surprised by Athos' immediate concurrence. Perhaps this was partly a consequence of their latest altercation with Milady de Winter, or perhaps it was Athos' stalwart devotion to honour and justice. In any case the four musketeers sent word immediately to Paris for backup as they joined the ranks of the Baron's troops.

The onslaught was fierce. D'Artagnan had been a musketeer for some while now, but never had he been involved in an altercation like this. Their routine missions (mishaps and grievances and all) were nothing compared to this.

No, this was warfare as he had never experienced it.

He stood on the field with the other men, Porthos at his side, and stared out at the lines of men with murder in their eyes.

It was kill or be killed.

This was no duel.

There were no rules, and as the tension grew as the two waves prepared themselves to meet in the deadly clash that both sides knew was coming, D'Artagnan found himself praying, for what seemed like the first time since his father had died.

His prayers were brief, but they gave him strength and he suddenly felt he understood Aramis and his devout faith a little better.

He prayed for the safety of his brothers. For Aramis, who would be leading the artillery who were responsible for laying protective fire for the infantry and the cavalry for as long as possible. He prayed for Porthos, the bear of a man in his position at the head of the infantry. D'Aratagnan couldn't imagine being in the enemy's position and looking out at Porthos. Power and bravery radiated from him and the men around him drew from it like the sun. He prayed for Athos and the cavalry in the most dangerous positions on horseback. They would be leading the charge once the initial firing had stopped, but seated, they were targets. An army always targeted the officers because leaderless troops could be easy pickings without the strategy and force of a commander. That, and riderless horses could sometimes cause more chaos and damage than anything else. He prayed for the Baron and his men and he prayed that the Duke would come to his senses before too many lives were lost. Finally, he prayed for himself.

"Just let me find them again, when this is all over."

Time seemed to be playing tricks on him as the battle began. The opening moments dragged out like years as men's lives were ripped away on both sides in flashes of gunpowder, their bodies falling in tragic slow-motion. Slowly both lines advanced. More men fell as second volleys were fired. The meeting was imminent. More bodies fell and D'Artagnan was almost positive he could see Aramis giving the command to draw swords as he pulled his rapier into his hand, his last pistol still clenched in the other.

The two sides met and time sped up. Instead of hours, things happened in less than a second. There were bodies everywhere and D'Artagnan lost count of the men that fell to his blade.

The sky was dark overhead as the black clouds seemed to gather to watch the devastation below. The rain held off at first, but the clouds rolled their thunder as if encouraging the cannons to join in their chorus.

As the firsts cannons hit, D'Artagnan was stunned as the projectiles cleft through the gathering men, tossing bodies into the air with the dirt when they impacted. As though in applause, the storm clouds released their deluge, adding a pouring rain to the melee.

Moving was difficult as the rain pelted the combatants. The only aid it provided was that it somehow seemed to dull the sounds and cries of the men as they lay dying – a weird morbid relief for those who continued to fight for their lives.

Somehow D'Artagnan had lost sight of Porthos. He could not see if there were any men who remained mounted, let alone if Athos was of their number.

He was surrounded by walls of grey as the rain poured down in sheets. He attacked and reacted as men continued to penetrate these walls with madness in their eyes and their blades raised.

Another boom rang out – but whether thunder or cannons he could not tell. D'Aratganan could no longer distinguish between the two. A cannon ball had embedded itself not far from where he stood, furrowing the now sodden plain in its anger. D'Artagnan was knocked off his feet and lay stunned for a moment. He was exhausted. He felt as though they had been fighting for days, though time had ceased to have any real relevance. Porthos' voice echoed in his mind from a sparring practice a lifetime ago, "Jus' keep your feet. Don't stay down!"

"Push forward!" he somehow heard Athos' voice call.

He struggled to his feet to obey the command through the squelching mud. He was more mud and blood than man at this point but he pushed forward with the others.

A blinding pain suddenly lanced through his side as an enemy's mallet made contact with his ribs. The air was pulled from him and he sank back into the darkness. Desperately he lashed out with his blade. His enemy's lifeless body fell on top of his as the bodies of the other men surged forward. He tried to stand but he couldn't. He no longer had control of his limbs and each breath he drew felt like it would kill him.

He clawed his way into the dugout he had noticed earlier and tried to breathe as the storm continued to rage overhead. How difficult it was to do something so simple as breathe, he thought bemusedly as his senses dulled around him.

"If this is the end," he prayed once more, "Take care of my brothers. May they find me again when this is all over."

oOo

It was bright.

So bright. A shocking change from the darkness and anger that surrounded him last.

He struggled to open his eyes. He felt a soft breeze lift his hair, and a subtle scent of rosemary and…alcohol?

"Am I in heaven?" he asked drowsily as his eyelashes finally separated.

"I'm flattered," said a voice he recognized, "but if mine is the first face you long to meet in heaven, you need to meet more women, mon ami."

"Aramis?" he mumbled as the medic's amused face came into view, the mischievous sparkle a constant in his dark eyes. Behind Aramis stood Athos, calm but weary looking, though his eyes too harboured relief in seeing D'Artagnan awaken.

"Where's Porthos?" he gasped as he struggled to push himself upright. His side erupted in pain at the sudden motion. He felt as though he had been run down by a carriage and he gasped for breath.

"'M here! I'm alrigh', I'm alrigh'" a low voice rumbled, the laughter reverberating in each note.

Porthos lay in the bed next to him, his leg suspended and his arm bandaged.

"What happened?" D'Artagnan gasped.

"Some people have a harder time dyin' than others," said Porthos.

Athos frowned. "He carried you from the field."

"The battle was over at that point. Nothin' to worry about."

Aramis and Athos exchanged a look.

"Your ankle was nearly twice its size and you had been stabbed," said Aramis, raising his hand to console the bridge of his nose in a gesture reminiscent of their Captain.

"Ya, but only in my arm," said Porthos with a grin. Aramis and Athos exchanged another look and Aramis sighed.

"I'll remind you of that if your infection doesn't clear or I need to redo my stitching," he said.

Porthos looked sheepish at that remark and raised his hands in supplication to the medic.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said, "But I still don't understand," he said as he grimaced as his side throbbed again. "What happened?"

Aramis helped D'Artagnan drink from a cup as Athos began the narrative.

"The battle went as expected. We managed to capitalize on the Duke's weak side. The rain sunk the cannons in place so the Duke and his men were unable to retreat. We took the cannons, and the battle ended soon after. The Duke was unfortunately killed – turned on by his own men. His son has taken his place. He seems more patient and understanding than his father. He and the Baron were friends as children. We expect that there will be peace within these lands for the foreseeable future."

D'Artagnan frowned. "How many lives were lost?"

Aramis' dark eyes softened. "It does the soul no good to think about."

"You fought well, D'Artagnan," said Athos confidently.

"It was chaos," he said. "I didn't know what I was doing, where I was going…when I got hit, I tried to get up. I heard your voices, but I couldn't. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was dying...All I knew was the darkness and the thunder," he said and grimaced once more from his pain, and maybe in part from embarrassment.

"Fear is not weakness," said Aramis, giving his forearm a squeeze.

D'Artagnan looked bashfully at where Aramis' hand rested on his arm. "I prayed," he admitted quietly. "I prayed that when everything was over, that you'd find me…in this life or the next."

"And that we did," said Athos. "Though you do have odd choices in guardian angels."

oooooooooooo


End file.
